Raised Backwards
by careerinfatuation
Summary: Clove's backstory: how she learned to throw knives, a bit of her childhood, and how she met Marvel. Disclaimer: I ship Clato, but had Clarvel on the brain for some reason! First HG fanfic, be gentle. :


I was five when I met Marvel.

District 2 trains the Peacekeepers, among excelling in masonry. My parents were the most trusted among our entire population, receiving the highest ranks, the most lavish praise and the most desired jobs. President Snow's puppets, if you will. Put up on a pedestal, draped in medals. Ideal citizens.

They married young, introduced by the snare instructor at the training center. People had put them together for ages—they had the same delicate bone structure, the same dark eyes and hair. A model couple.

They were in love: real love, not the poor District 2 substitute for it. Despite being raised backwards (victory is right, emotions get in the way) they somehow found each other. It inspired young lovers around reaping age, brought tears to the eyes of elderly spouses, and made a good supermarket conversation topic: everyone loved my parents.

Soon after, they had me, an exact replica of their darkness, although my mind was dark, too. Once I could walk, President Snow brought an ultimatum to the table: remain devoted to your job, or take your daughter with you, open to the horror, punishments, and mistakes of the districts.

A normal parent would want to shelter their child, wouldn't they? To keep them as pure as possible, for as long as possible? A normal parent would stay home, tending to their daughter, wrapping her in blankets and reading her storybooks until she fell asleep. A normal parent wouldn't elaborate—they'd let her learn what she may in school, but never start in on the details of their jobs, down to every grisly, gritty specific. A normal parent wouldn't do that.

I soon found my parents weren't normal. I went with them everywhere.

*

I grew up on trains as my parents traveled from district to district, learning different offensive and defensive skills at every stop. I made nooses in District 4, my teacher a withered old fisherman. I carved spearheads in 8, tied tourniquets in 9, hacked away at trees in 7 with Johanna Mason's axe. My most precious skill, however, was throwing knives. I credit that to a butcher in District 11.

A 5 year old forced to grow up too fast, I was sent out to fetch groceries for my parents while they attended to a fruit-stealing case. I tried to ignore the gunshots I heard from the orchard as I strolled through the town square, kicking up dust with every step. I passed through a little blue door, bells clanged, and a woman with dark skin and knotted brown hair rushed from a back room to greet me. Her apron was bloody, as were her hands.

"Hello, I am Magdalene," she said cheerfully, coating my hand in red. She quickly realized her mistake, reaching for a towel on the counter. "No, it's okay," I insisted, pushing it away.

I licked my fingers clean instead, down to every last drop.

When she hit the floor in a dead faint, another dark-skinned woman took her place. "Magdalene has a bit of a weak stomach." She seemed younger, but older somehow. There was something in her eyes that indicated she'd seen a lot in her lifetime, a lot more than I wanted to imagine. "Verina."

Of course. Verina Shisane. She had won the Hunger Games a couple of years ago, someone my parents spoke of sometimes. I saw the signs of a victor in the dark circles under her eyes, in the extra effort it took for her to smile. "Clove." I curtsied, taking pride in my manners. She smiled as she tied her hair back.

"You're not from around here."

"I'm not. I'm a Peacekeeper's daughter."

For some reason, this took her aback. "What would they be doing dragging you around these parts? This is no place for a little gir—" Before she could say another word, I pulled a sharp piece of seaglass from my pocket. It left my hand in a perfect arch, clipping her cheek before sticking into the wall behind her. "I'm not a little girl."

I'd turned on my heel to leave when she jumped out from behind the counter, reaching for my wrist. "Where'd you learn to do that?" She gaped at me in awe, the way a teacher would look at her student. "Everywhere," I shrugged indifferently. It was true—after being so many places, it was hard to keep track of where I learned what. "Hold on a minute." She ran to the back, returning a second later with a bundle of silver cloth. The gleam of a jagged edge peeked out at me from behind the fabric.

"Open it."

That was how it began.

*

On my way to District 1 later that day, I held my brand new toy knives in my hands. Serrated, butter, steak. After just two hours of training, I knew how to hit a target from 5 yards away, could throw both right and left handed, and could do a somersault, blade in hand, before rolling to my feet and piercing my victim.

It was sad—my parents had never been more proud.

*

"We'll be back in ten minutes, okay, Clove?"

I was being abandoned at a park near District 1's town square. A sandbox the size of a lake, perfect stone paths over rivers of woodchips, sheets of knotted rope, slides, swings, bridges and platforms all loomed down at me, not to mention the other children. They all looked the same here: blonde girls, brunette boys. All trying to be older and stronger, preparing for their first reaping. I supposed I'd relate to them in that sense, but they were so different than me: they looked like the dolls I beheaded, with names to match. Shimmer. Glitter. Jewel. Diamond. They were glamorous; I was simple.

I held tight to my mother's skirt. I didn't want to be left alone here.

She knelt down beside me, reaching into her handbag. One by one, she pulled out my knives, setting them in my hands. She spun me around, turning to point at a tree with a bullseye affixed to it. "Why don't you try to hit those? The kids here like the same things you do. You'll be fine, sweetie."

Quickly, I pulled out a blade, shining it on the hem of my shirt. After positioning myself a few yards away, I flicked my wrist, watching in satisfaction as it hit the red center. I turned around, grinning, desperate to show someone, but no one had noticed. At least, that's what I thought. I had just picked up another knife when I heard it.

"WOW!"

I jumped, the knife leaving my hand in unintentional panic. I knew instantly it would hit him, and I squeezed my eyes closed, waiting for the sound of a scream. To my surprise, I heard nothing. Already thinking of the newspaper headlines I'd see tomorrow morning ("Peacekeeper's Daughter Turned Murderer! It's All Fun and Games Until Someone Gets Their Throat Slit!"), I open my eyes, expecting the worst.

A little boy, around my age, had been pinned to the tree by the blade. He had eyes the color of chocolate, and hair the color of a mouse, cropped close to his head. There were big dimples in his cheeks. His mouth, thin and pink, had fallen open in an O, and his forehead gleamed with sweat. He didn't blink. _Was he breathing?_

I ran over, reaching for his side where the knife had hit. I yanked it from the wood, taking in a deep breath when it came out clean. "That was really good. You're really good." He smoothed out the wrinkles in his shirt, refusing to break his gaze on me. When I didn't respond, he continued. "Really, I've never seen anything like it. You're just…_so_ good."

I shrugged, thinking morbidly of what might have happened if I had been an inch off. "I could have killed you." _Why couldn't I just accept a compliment?_ He smiled, showing his dimples again. It made my stomach feel funny.

"It's not a real knife. I'm okay. Besides, none of the girls here are as good as you. I wouldn't have minded if you did. I could have died with some dignity."

It was clear we're very similar, this boy and I.

Always thinking of victory, always thinking of pride. Never showing weakness, never fearing the end.

Shy around new people, I couldn't think of anything else to say. A wave of blush washed over my cheeks.

"I'm Marvel."

I nodded.

"I'm Clove."

He smiled at me again, this time with teeth. One of his front ones was missing, forming a tiny black gap against the white.

"You're pretty."

I wanted to run away. I wanted to tear off my shoes and grab all my knives and take off.

"I have a toy sword."

I looked down. My feet had suddenly become very interesting.

"Want to play with me?"

Silence.

Maybe it was something about me, or maybe it was just a District 1 personality trait, but he was persistent. Slowly, oh so slowly, he reached out, taking my hand. His fingers fit comfortably between mine, causing me to squirm. He tugged at my arm, coaxing me out of my shell. "What? I don't have cooties! Come on."

What a sight we must have been, two future killers walking hand in hand away from their childhood.

What a sad, sad sight.

*


End file.
